by Candace Camp
“Really? Well, I must admit that when we were talking earlier, he did seem somewhat lenient about the practice of smuggling.”
“Smuggling!” Anthony exclaimed. “What the dev— I mean, why on earth were you discussing smuggling?”
Benedict shrugged. “The conversation simply turned that way. I cannot remember why. We were, of course, deploring it.”
“I am sure Grandpapa never said anything so poor-spirited,” Anthony contested hotly.
Benedict’s brows rose lazily. “But, surely, smuggling is illegal.”
“Of course.” Cousin Harold pursed his lips disapprovingly and sent a stern glance in Anthony’s direction. “But far too many people, including people who should be setting an example for their inferiors, are too permissive—one could even say supportive of such activities.”
“You mean, the locals support the smugglers?”
Harold shrugged expressively. “It is well-known around here that many a case of brandy is left on certain doorsteps on certain nights.”
“Really, Harold,” Cousin Bertram drawled, raising the quizzing glass that hung from his waistcoat by a ribbon and focusing it on his brother. “Do stop prosing on so. We are discussing liquor, not murder.”
“That is precisely the sort of attitude I mean,” Harold said stiffly. “Young Anthony is even worse. Really, Aunt Lydia, the boy needs more control.”
“Not from you!” Anthony rose to his feet, then subsided with ill grace at a quelling look from Camilla.
“One would think,” Harold went on, “that with the death of Nat Crowder, everyone would have realized that the wages of sin are death. But it seems to have made no one regret their actions, or even think about them.”
“Nat Crowder?” Benedict asked innocently.
“Yes. A local chap, found dead a few weeks ago. Rumored to be one of the smugglers, even the head of them. The sort of end that comes to people like that.”
“People like what?” Anthony was white-lipped with anger. “Nat was a good man. At least he wasn’t a pharisee who went about beating his chest in public.”
“He was a criminal,” Harold retorted flatly.
“This man was murdered?” Benedict interjected. “Because he was a smuggler?”
“He was found at the bottom of a cliff with his neck broken,” Anthony said. “That does not mean he was murdered.”
“It does make it likely,” Cousin Bertram put in. “No one knew the cliffs around here any better than Nat.”
“You knew him?” Benedict asked.
“Oh, yes, when we were boys. He was much the same age as I. We would often play together when I was down here visiting. Don’t you remember, Harold?”
“Of course I remember. Just because we used to play blindman’s buff together doesn’t mean I approve of what Nat grew up to become.”
“Gave me quite a start, his dying like that,” Cousin Bertram said reflectively. “I mean, well, makes you think, doesn’t it?”
“It ought to make you think about what you are doing with your life,” Harold told his brother darkly.
Bertram lifted his brows in feigned astonishment. “Really, brother, one might think that you disapproved of me.”
Harold let out a snort.
“But what about Nat Crowder?” Camilla asked, trying to steer them away from the conflict that seemed to be springing up on every side. Really, Cousin Harold managed to rub everyone the wrong way. “Why was he murdered? What did it have to do with smuggling?”
“Nothing,” Anthony said sourly. “It was probably caused by something else entirely.”
“Perhaps it was a struggle for power,” Benedict suggested.
“Someone else trying to take over the smuggling ring?” Camilla nodded. “That makes sense.”
“Then who is the new head of the smugglers?” Bertram asked. “That would seem to tell us who the murderer was.”
“No one knows,” Harold answered, shrugging.
“But everyone apparently knew that this Crowder fellow was the ringleader,” Benedict pointed out.
“Yes. But I have heard nothing about anyone taking his place.”
“Who would tell the village vicar anything like that?” Bertram asked disdainfully.
“You would be surprised how many rumors find their way to the door of the church. My sheep often bring their troubles to me.”
Bertram rolled his eyes.
“Harold, dearest!” Aunt Beryl sailed into the room, holding her hands out to her youngest son. Camilla had long thought that Harold was her aunt’s favorite child; they were, after all, so much alike in their sanctimonious, bossy ways. “I just now learned that you were here. Why didn’t you send a message straight up to me?”
“Dear madam, I hope you will pardon me when I tell you that the news of my fair cousin’s arrival drove all other thought from my head. I hastened at once to greet her.”
“You naughty boy,” she said with a roguish look, first at him, then at Camilla. “But I know how you young people are. Always more interested in each other than in seeing one’s poor old mother.” She smiled archly and waggled a playful forefinger at Camilla, as if she had been engaged in some youthful hijinks.
Camilla gazed back at her in amazement. Though Aunt Beryl had always disapproved of Camilla, she had nourished the hope that Harold would prevail on her to marry him. Camilla did, after all, have a tidy little inheritance. But Camilla could hardly believe that the woman actually seemed to still be encouraging a romance between her and Harold. Did she not believe Camilla’s marriage was real, even after that scene in the garden today?
“Indeed?” Benedict asked coldly. “Precisely what do you mean, madam?”
Camilla turned toward him. Benedict’s voice was like ice, and his face might have been the model for a disdainful aristocrat. Even Aunt Beryl seemed at a loss in the face of his disapproval.
She gaped at him for a moment, then went on in a flustered way, “Well, ah, that is, I was merely teasing Harold a little. He and Camilla have been close since childhood.”
Camilla’s brows went up at that gross overstatement. Cousin Bertram sighed and began to twirl his quizzing glass, looking at Benedict.
“Really?” Benedict drawled. “How odd that Camilla had not mentioned him to me.”
Aunt Beryl and Harold both looked affronted at this statement, and Camilla hastened to say soothingly, “Now, Benedict, you know that I told you about all my relatives.”
“Did you?” Benedict replied in a bored way. “I fear I have forgotten.”
Aunt Beryl’s face hardened, and Camilla could see from the way she looked at Benedict that she was growing to dislike him as much as she did her niece. Camilla hoped she would not say anything, for Benedict seemed to be in a wretched mood, and she feared that he might give her aunt a set-down.
At that moment, however, Mr. Thorne walked in, breaking the mood of the scene. His hands were clasped behind his back, and his forehead was wrinkled in thought. Anthony, who had been watching the brewing confrontation between Benedict and Aunt Beryl with interest, let out a groan at Thorne’s arrival. Thorne looked up and glanced around in surprise, as if he had not been aware of where he was. Then his eyes fell upon Lydia, and he smiled rapturously.
“Ah, fair Diana,” he exclaimed, going to her and bowing low over her hand. “I have been composing a verse this morning. You are my inspiration. How fortunate that I have found you.”
“Have you?” Lydia returned vaguely. “Isn’t that nice?”
Anthony jumped to his feet, looking as if he had been goaded beyond his endurance. “I am going to my room to study.”
Lydia looked at him in astonishment. Harold nodded and beamed approval.
“Good lad! I am glad to see that my words had some effect on you.”
Camilla had
to smother a laugh at the frustration on Anthony’s face. She knew that he was almost tempted to stay in the room, rather than have Harold think that his advice had had any influence on him.
“I told my tutor that I would come back,” Anthony said ungraciously. He turned toward Camilla suddenly and said, “Milla, won’t you come, too? Mr. Forbes is eager to see you again.”
Camilla did not betray her surprise that Mr. Forbes had expressed any opinion about her at all. Instead, she stood up, glad for an excuse to leave her aunt and cousin. “Benedict, dear…” She ignored Anthony, who was turned with his back to the rest of the room and was winking at her madly. “Would you like to meet Anthony’s tutor?”
She was offering him an escape from Cousin Harold’s stultifying conversation, as well as Aunt Beryl’s entrapping questions, so she expected Benedict to leap at the chance. Instead, he smiled and said, “Thank you, Camilla, but why don’t you go along by yourself? I would enjoy visiting further with your cousin Harold.”
“Of course.” She tried not to look as astounded as she felt.
As she and Anthony walked out the door, she heard Cousin Bertram saying to his brother, “Doesn’t Mr. Lassiter look familiar, Harry? I’ve been trying to think all morning where we’ve met before. Where did you go to school, Mr. Lassiter?”
Camilla smiled to herself, thinking that it served him right for staying.
“I can’t believe that you asked him to come with us!” Anthony hissed once they were out of hearing distance of the sitting room. “Didn’t you see me winking at you?”
“Of course I did. And you looked quite silly, too.”
“Silly be damned. I didn’t want him with us.”
“I know you don’t like Benedict, Anthony, but I am at a loss to understand why. You don’t even know the man.”
“Do you like him?”
The question took her aback. “Of course not.” She shook her head and repeated, “Of course not. I was worried about what Aunt Beryl might trick him into saying. That’s the only reason I wanted him to come with us. I cannot understand why he would not seize the chance to leave.”
“Because he wanted to try to get more information out of them. Didn’t you see?”
“No. What are you talking about? What kind of information could he possibly get out of Aunt Beryl or Lydia?”
“Gossip, that’s what. And Cousin Harold’s the main one, not my mother or Aunt Beryl. Didn’t you hear Benedict asking about the smugglers?”
“Yes.”
“Well? Don’t you see? It proves that he is an excise man, just as I told you last night. As soon as he brought up that smuggling thing, I knew it.”
“Was he the one who brought it up?” Camilla asked as they reached the staircase and started up it. “I thought it was Cousin Harold.”
“Oh, Cousin Harold couldn’t keep from spouting off about it, of course, in that brainless way of his. But it was your Mr. Lassiter who worked the conversation around to it in the first place. And now he’s going to wring every last bit of information out of them that he can. Thank heavens Harold is such a self-important fool. He will act as if he knows everything, when he knows nothing about it at all. He could not misdirect the man more if he tried.”
Camilla looked at her cousin oddly. “What does it matter? Why do you care whether he finds out anything? Personally, I would much prefer that he is an excise officer than a thief, which was your other surmise. If he is a customs man, at least we aren’t in any danger.”
Anthony glanced at her quickly, then away. Camilla came to a halt, realization dawning on her. “Wait!” She reached out and took Anthony’s arm, pulling him to a stop beside her. “Anthony! Are you—”
She glanced all around, then dragged him down the hall and into her room. When she had shut the door firmly behind them, she turned to him, hands on hips. Anthony fidgeted, looking anywhere but at her.
“Anthony Lionel Fitzwilliam Elliot!” she said fiercely, keeping her voice to a whisper, as if they might be heard even inside this room. “Are you involved with the smugglers?”
He set his jaw, still not looking at her, which was answer enough.
“Anthony! I cannot believe this of you! What about your mother? What about Grandpapa? If he finds this out, it will kill him!”
“It’s not that bad. Grandpapa doesn’t condemn them. Why, he even buys from them,” he answered sullenly, crossing his arms over his chest.
“Don’t be absurd. Buying brandy, or even feeling sympathy toward the smugglers, is a far cry from actually participating in smuggling! What if you get caught? Even Grandpapa will not be able to save you. Not if you’re caught red-handed and hauled off to jail. Think of your family, Anthony. Think of the disgrace. The future Earl of Chevington, caught smuggling!”
“I won’t get caught. I’m careful.”
“Oh, Anthony, you never think you will get caught.”
“Usually I’m not.”
“All it would take would be one time. It will be the end of you. The ruin of all of us.” She turned away and began to pace. “Why? Why did you do this? It can’t be for the money.”
“Of course not. I just did it for a lark one night. Jem was doing it, and he was telling me about it.”
“Jem Crowder?”
Anthony nodded, and Camilla groaned.
“I should have known. You and he have always gotten each other into mischief.”
“They needed an extra hand. So I said, sure, I’d go along, and I went. And, oh, Camilla, it was such fun!” His handsome face lit up, betraying how much he was still a boy, no matter how large he had grown. “So I asked if I could do it again, and you know Nat, he was always a stand-up chap, and he let me. I’ve been doing it ever since.”
Camilla put her face to her hands. “Anthony, Anthony…”
“Come on, Milla,” he said coaxingly, going to her and wrapping his hands around her wrists, pulling her hands from her face so that he could look down into her eyes. “I am not the only one who’s gotten into scrapes. Who is it that’s managed to work herself into a masquerade of marriage? You let your tongue get away with you, and now you’re in a terrific jam. If anyone finds out, you will be completely disgraced. Just like me.”
Camilla flushed. She could not deny his words. She was just as bad as he was, getting herself in such a fix. “You’re right,” she admitted. “I have gotten myself into a mess, and it’s going to be the very devil to get out of it. But at least, if I am caught, I won’t be hanged for it. If you are caught—”
“I won’t be. You know the ‘gentlemen’—” he gave the smugglers their local nickname “—haven’t been caught.”
“Not recently. But there have been those in the past who were. And you know what happened to them. I couldn’t bear it if anything happened to you! The whole family would be ruined. Your mother could never again go back into Society. And Grandpapa—”
“I know. I know,” he said wretchedly, his shoulders slumping. “Oh, Milla, I know I should not have done it. It was just that it was such fun, such excitement, and Chevington Park is so deadly dull.”
Camilla heaved a sigh. “I know you are bored. I told Grandpapa he ought to at least send you to school. I understand that he didn’t want you to go into the army. You are the heir, after all, and after your father’s death, he was desperately afraid of losing you, too. But it would have been much better for you at Eton, where you could have been around other boys, not spending all your time here, bored and lonely and letting Jem Crowder talk you into things.”
“Don’t blame Jem. He’s a good fellow.”
“A good fellow who is likely to end up on the gallows,” Camilla retorted. “Anthony, surely you see that you must stop. Don’t you? You cannot go on with this.”
“I know. I will end it. I will tell Jem, and—and when they can find
someone to replace me, I will quit.”
Camilla sighed. She supposed that she would have to be content with his promise, although she would have preferred that he quit right now, cleanly, and not wait for them to replace him.
“Anthony…” she asked after a moment, “do you know anything about Nat’s death? Was it because of the smuggling?”
He frowned and shook his head. “No. I don’t know anyone who knows what happened or why. Even Jem knows nothing. Nat was just found dead one morning.”
“Is there a new leader? Do you think he killed Nat?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never seen him. Everyone wears masks or kerchiefs over their faces. That way none of us can turn the others in if we get caught. Of course, some of them I know by their voices or the set of the bodies, but there are plenty whom I don’t recognize. And I don’t ask questions. It isn’t wise.” He paused, then went on, “There must be someone making plans and giving orders. Everything runs more smoothly now than it did when Nat was alive. But I never hear anyone say who should do what or where or when we go. I just get the word from Jem, and I think that’s the way it is with most of the men. Someone tells someone else, who tells another. The thing is…”
“What?”
“They’re talking now about swearing blood oaths. You know, taking an oath not to leave the ring and not to betray it. Having a ceremony, you see, and committing yourself to it.”
“This is something you think the new leader advocates?”
He nodded. “One of the men started talking about it, but I know he didn’t think it up. He is too stupid. Several of the others think that it’s a good idea. To insure loyalty.”
“What would happen if you left the ring, then?”
He looked away from her. “They’re talking about swearing to the death.”
Camilla turned white. “You mean they would kill you if you left?”
He nodded slowly. “But we haven’t sworn anything yet. And none of them know who I am, anyway, except Jem, and he would never tell.”
“Oh, Anthony, think!” Camilla exclaimed. “If you can tell who some of the other men are by their voices or their size and shape, don’t you think that you are easily recognizable to them? Who else among them has hands like an aristocrat? I dare swear that you haven’t a callus on your palm.”